


throw over your man, i say, and come

by screamlet



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 1910s, Escape, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, London, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:11:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamlet/pseuds/screamlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I think she knows. I think she knows how much I want to go to London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	throw over your man, i say, and come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zlot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zlot/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Adventuring for Ladies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/346712) by [zlot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zlot/pseuds/zlot). 



> For dollsome's [Mary and Lavinia Comment Ficathon](http://dollsome.livejournal.com/1760701.html) that got a little carried away, inspired by zlot's prompt–a quote from one of Virginia Woolf's letters to Vita Sackville-West: _Look here Vita — throw over your man, and we’ll go to Hampton Court and dine on the river together and walk in the garden in the moonlight and come home late and have a bottle of wine and get tipsy, and I’ll tell you all the things I have in my head, millions, myriads — They won’t stir by day, only by dark on the river. Think of that. Throw over your man, I say, and come._
> 
> Set in some nebulous world before S2E5 and then there's a sharp detour into an AU. Linked to [Adventuring for Ladies](http://archiveofourown.org/works/346712) because I, too, borrowed Amelia for a second.

"Lavinia, what about London?" Matthew asks as he clasps my hands.

"Oh, Matthew, I don't know," I say, wavering, quavering, really considering it for him, this marvelous idea that he could have generated on his own if his thoughts weren't preoccupied with devising a plan for marrying both me and his cousin, oh and that little thing of winning the war.

I glance at the Crawley ladies–particularly _Granny_ or Aunt Violet or Vulture Hat or whatever I'm commanded to call her–it's _Granny_ who has one exacting eye fixed on me and with that eye she sees it all.

I think she knows. I think she knows how much I want to go to London, how I've chatted about missing home and friends and Daddy, how for the past week that Matthew has been visiting, every exciting thing I've spoken to him about was followed up with, "Oh, but it's in London, and your mother does want my company, I think, as do the girls." I think I sighed the word, _London_ , under my breath at one point, and that may have been too far but _honestly Matthew_ , how thick can you get?

"Many people consider the country air to be best," Aunt Vulture Granny begins, "But that's not true for real city girls. I dare say the rush of the city would do you a good turn."

"Though we would miss your company," Mary adds before Granny can let me know how she feels with the exact number of cars that should accidentally-brutally city-rush over me in the middle of traffic.

I do love her spirit.

"I'll talk to my father and we'll see, darling," I say to Matthew, gripping his hands a little tighter. "I'll let you know when it's decided."

"Of course," and he kisses me on the cheek, a soft press that couldn't melt a snowflake, let alone tell me what he's feeling, what he's thinking, how long before he throws me over for his tall, beautiful, cold, sharp, amazing cousin.

They are cousins. Distant, but still cousins.

The car drives off with Matthew in it. I watch until it disappears from sight; when I turn, Mary is there, watching me, watching with me, and I smile at her. 

"Will you really go to London, do you think?" Mary asks after a moment.

"I think," I reply. "Yes, I think. Yes. I'm very sure."

"That was a quick decision," Mary notes.

I have to laugh before I say, "It wasn't a decision at all."

Mary looks shocked and… I think I detect a hint of embarrassment. 

"I don't mean that in the wrong way," I say. "I mean–well, it's my home. And, truth be told, your grandmother's right. I miss the bustle of the city. Don't you?"

She spreads her hands open and says, "How can I miss something when I only see it during the season, a few months quick every year? And there isn't much time to see or experience anything when you're rushing between lunch and the dressmaker and making calls and houses and balls–"

"Come with me," I say before I can consider what that actually means.

Mary seems shocked into silence and that gives me my moment of consideration. I use it well.

At Downton Abbey, there are three matriarchs (including Matthew's mother, who would throw a fit to hear that she wasn't considered one) and three sisters. The way things shake out, Sybil heals all of Europe at the nearby hospital, Edith picks up some slack around the house and tragically falls in love with all the wrong soldiers, and Mary and I are the ones who are left.

We're the ones who are left and we are, shockingly enough, perfect for each other.

Asking her to come to London with me isn't nearly as shocking and I don't know why Mary seems to think so. Sometimes I think she believes her mother and grandmother more than she should–that we should be at odds with each other for Matthew's affection and title and that modest solicitor's living–and then I remember that as intelligent as they are, Downton is in the middle of nowhere. Of course intrigues with interloping girls and the never-ending saga of whose hand lingers longer fills the days here, because what else is there? I'm certain their chauffeur has read through the library twice, even while shooting longing looks at Sybil and maintaining the cars. 

"Oh, Lavinia, I don't know–"

"Please come with me," I say. 

It's Matthew's fault the ladies of Downton think I'm much more frail and delicate than I am. If I loved Matthew less–if I didn't care for him–if I laughed at him less–if he brought me less joy than he does–I wouldn't be so… so soppy and struck with him whenever he walks into a room or comes up in conversation. If I cared less, I wouldn't have to expend so much energy hiding it, standing on the gravel path holding his hands in front of his extended family, restraining myself from laughing at him, resting my head against his chest, kissing him the way I need to be kissed. 

Now Matthew's away, fighting, being an officer, and my comfort is in his cousin, the one he loves so much, and it would be upsetting if she wasn't _Mary_. She paces the house covered in barbs, bristles at the drop of a hat, and beneath that? A terrifyingly innocent girl who loves how sharp I am when no one else is around, stands up to Auntie Vulture when no one else will, and must come to London with me or I won't go at all. 

With Matthew I'm perfect; with Mary, I'm _me_.

"I won't go without you," I say, a little laugh rising in my throat because I mean it so much. She laughs, like I knew she would, and says,

"Well, you've seen enough of our home for a bit, haven't you? I suppose I should see yours."

"Yes," I say. "Yes, you should. Yes, you will."

*

I use the telephone to plan everything–we leave in a week, and we'll stay for a month, maybe two, maybe for the rest of the war, maybe until we're all speaking German, maybe forever, maybe until the world ends.

 _We_ leave in a week.

As I watch Anna, Mary's very special maid, pack, Mary comes back into her room from Sybil's with a pair of bright blue harem pants. "Are these too out of fashion?"

"Oh God," I laugh.

"I can sleep in them!"

"Mary," I realize. "Have you ever seen me in slacks?"

"Slacks?"

"I'll wear slacks around the house," I decide right then. "Bring yours, too, and if all you have are your riding outfits, then we'll order them for you in town."

Mary sits on a strange little long ottoman not-couch piece of furniture that's randomly tucked away in a corner of her room–I can almost see Mary as she must have been when she was thirteen or so–a ball of dark-haired fury bursting into this room, slamming the door, and shoving that weird not-couch-not-chair-not-anything into a corner, hard enough to hit the wall with a bang, and instantly creating a spot for Mary to retreat to when she has to be Mary and only Mary.

She sits there and looks at me, happy about slacks, London, me, all of it, and I smile and look away, leave her to it.

*

It's London. It's home. We have breakfast in dressing gowns and slacks, shop, pay calls to my friends and hers–it's so devastatingly natural. We stand on a stoop together, exchange looks, final comments on whoever we're going to see ( _their pink lemonade is only about 2% lemonade, the rest will pickle you instantly and we have two more people to see!_ or _their butler will devour you alive with his eyes–freeze him, kill him with a frost, I want to see you do it_ ) and going in together is so easy. 

And when it's not easy, when Mary has had enough of my planning and questions and ideas and chatter, we sit in the library with the bottles of port all to ourselves, reading books at opposite ends of the couch. Sometimes my feet rest in her lap, sometimes hers in mine, sometimes our hands meet in the middle of the couch, sometimes I take my small lap desk and write letters, sometimes she looks at me and this, not Downton–this is real.

*

"Amelia is, well, Amelia," I tell Mary as we arrive at our hostess's home outside the city, just close enough to the edges of London that Mary won't feel as though I've kidnapped her and shipped her back to Yorkshire. "She… is one of those people you keep around just so you can say she's around. We're not close, though we've known each other years… she's one of those people you know of rather than know."

"Goodness," Mary says as she catches a glimpse of Amelia's house in the moonlight while we wait for the driver to let us out. "Dear, you're allowed to say _I only like her for her house_."

"You haven't seen the gardens yet," I say as we step out.

Once we mingle, drink, eat, mingle, drink, we're warm and I lead Mary around the edges of the room until we're out the door and walking towards the back of the house. 

Mary drops my hand and dashes off for a moment, then returns with two coats that must belong to the servants. "Wine can keep us warm, but these will help," she says as she drapes a coat around my bare shoulders.

"Won't they just," I say nonsensically as I take the coat she's holding, drape it on her shoulders, and lead her out the door again.

Amelia calls this part of her home "the gardens," but actual flowering gardening isn't what makes it stunning–the stunning part is the lawn, green even in the moonlight, maintained to the centimeter, stretching out forever with pristine hedges here and there. We walk and the ground gives, but not so much that our shoes will be ruined. 

"Why doesn't Downton move me like this?" Mary asks after a long moment of silence. She takes my hand and leads me to the low brick wall that creates an arbitrary separation between the back of the house and the rest of the lawn. We sit on it and she slips off her shoes, the tips of her toes brushing against the top of the grass. I let my shoes drop, too, but I'm slightly shorter and let my feet swing back and forth all the same. "We have _so_ much grass. It's _grass_. It shouldn't–"

She leans against my shoulder, rubs her cheek against the jacket draped around my shoulders. I shrug the jacket off so I can put my arms around her, pull her against my side, press my lips against her hair. 

"Don't cry," I say. "If you cry, then you can't say something completely apt for the moment, and then where will we be? Here in this garden, with all this _verdantness_ , and we can't even commemorate it with a bon mot or some wonderful epithet."

Mary laughs and does stop crying, but she doesn't pull away. I'm not sure I would let her if she did try to get away from me just then.

"Tell me what you're thinking," I say, quieter. "Tell me everything."

"Do you ever have those times," she says after a time, "When you're thinking, but you're only thinking one thing, the same thing, over and over again? Thinking it in a thousand different ways, tones, volumes, everything?"

"Once or twice."

"I suppose that'll do," she says, letting herself laugh. "The only thing I'm thinking, one thought over and over, is how we've only been here two weeks, and I've never, ever been happier, not in my entire life."

"Oh, darling."

"How can I go back?" she asks. She sits up a little, just enough for her eyes to meet mine, for our eyes to search each other's expressions for some way to keep this going yes, maybe forever, maybe until the Germans take over the world, at least until people stop caring about stupid things like who we marry, as if it matters to anyone but us.

"I'm afraid I'm fresh out of ideas," I say and I can't quite hide a sniffle from her, not here, not now. "Remember, we wouldn't be here right now if it weren't for Matthew's brilliant idea."

Mary bursts out laughing, pulls away and laughs, laughs so much I think she'll tip over and fall off the wall where we're sitting. She laughs and wipes her eyes, edges closer to me again, and we secure our arms around each other as tightly as we can manage it. 

It makes talking a little difficult, but I'm not sure talking will be important in the near future.

"Mary, what about London?" I ask her.

"What about it?" she laughs.

"Mary, what about me?" 

She kisses me, hard and with so much _want_ , enough that I throw back a hand because Mary might knock me off the wall and I laugh against her mouth. She pulls me back against her and kisses me again, and I wrap my arms around her, hard enough to remind her in the morning that I'm keeping her, we're keeping each other, that's all there is to it.


End file.
